


Un-Conditioning

by Mottled_System



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (he gets there in the end), BDSM, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Force Sensitivity, Force-Sensitive Reader, Kind Kylo Ren (sorta), Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren Redemption, Kylo Ren in Love, Lol Who Is Rey, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Possessive Kylo Ren, Protective Kylo Ren, She's a Resistance Badass, Storm Trooper, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, The Dark Side of the Force, The First Order Wins (Star Wars), Top Kylo Ren, Trauma, Virgin Kylo Ren, Will update as story progresses - Freeform, just kidding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You are ND-0961, an indentured stormtrooper recently relocated. When Kylo Ren senses a Force Sensitive person on board, it's not too long before he finds you- and a strangely peppy fellow trooper awakens your past, very much against your will. Kylo is determined to train you, and after a tired reluctantness, you find yourself enthralled with the Force and with him. I'm not entirely sure where this is going to go, but suggestions are always welcome!
Relationships: Ben Solo & Reader, Ben Solo & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You, Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	1. Embers

As a stormtrooper, you’re not generally given much information. You’re a buckethead, cannon fodder, a walking gun- and when you aren’t, you’re scrubbing your superior’s boots clean and sorting their laundry. You gather that what remains of the stormtroopers from the last battle are being integrated into the stormtroopers on another ship- your new captain is called Phasma, but she’s no different from your last. Your bed is on the bottom bunk now, but it’s still just as uncomfortable.

At least you get some sort of difference to stimulate your numbed mind- a new ship to memorize. New faces in the mess hall. Unfortunately, the faces on this ship are much more talkative than you’d prefer- they spread rumours, whispers, things you really don’t need to or want to know.  _ Kylo Ren _ is on this ship- a name you are actually vaguely aware of. But it holds no meaning to you other than the image of some daunting First Order official you’ve never seen, and you glance away from the trooper who told you back down to your food.  _ General Hux _ is as well, another name you’re vaguely familiar with, though it holds similarly sparse meaning. They’re your superiors, more boots to scrub. No more and no less- the others would do well to remember that.

“ND-0961,” says Captain Phasma behind you. You perform the standard mealtime salute. “At ease- report to the medbay when you are finished.”

“Yes, Captain,” you say, and then she’s gone.

“Are you hurt?” asks PN-1033, a little concern in her voice. You glance at her now familiar face.

“No.”

“Why are you being sent to medbay, then?” asks another trooper, a man you don’t recognize.

“Reassignment, perhaps,” PN-1033 muses.

“I suppose I’ll be made aware of that after mealtime.”

“I think you’d like medbay,” she says- she’s in medbay, and she seems to have gotten an attachment to you, foolishly. “You’re not so much of a people person, but you’re calm and focused. You’d do well if they trained you as a surgeon.”

“Perhaps.” It’s not your place to speculate nor hope for a new assignment, only to perform what they’ve told you to. And you quite like boot maintenance. It, too, requires- or at least elicits, in you- a sense of calmness and focus, without such a big consequence should you fail. You and PN-1033 make your way to the medbay together, your helmet on once more. It’s dizzying for you to look at the white heads of your colleagues- they’re so plentiful and identical it makes you queasy. Another reason medbay may not be for you.

PN-1033 goes straight to work after a brief but chipper goodbye. You march up to the medbay supervisor and salute. “Sir, ND-0961 reporting to medbay as instructed,”

“Alright,” he says. “Sit in that stool there. I hope you ate?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. PN-1033 will be with you shortly.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

PN-1033 sits across from you minutes later, no longer in her usual stormtrooper apparel but instead in a clinical coat and mask. You can see her hazel eyes looking happily at you. “You’re undergoing a blood test, ND,”

  1. _ND_. You know nicknames are permitted, but it still bothers you. You expose your arm for her. “Okay.”



“Aren’t you curious as to why?” she presses, readying and sterilizing her equipment. “I certainly am, but there’s no way my supervisor would tell me.”

“It is need to know.” You state simply.

“I know that,” she says softly. “Jeez, for a changeling, you sure are- heavily indoctrinated.”

You scowl, thankful for the helmet covering your face. You hate being called a changeling- it’s not even accurate. “I know my duty and my purpose.”

“As do I,” she says as she ties the tourniquet around your arm then cleans the skin at your wrist. “But I also allow myself the luxury of human emotion.”

“I have emotions,” you argue.

“Of course you do,” she says gently. “Curiosity counts as emotion.”

“Curiosity can easily transform into insubordination. I avoid it, and therefore, I avoid insubordination.”

“They must condition you lot hard,” she says, her voice somewhat sad. “Can you remember your family?”

You hiss in a breath at the question, then grind your teeth as she pokes you with the needle. “No.” And you don’t want to. “My place with the First Order.”

“Does it bother you that they sold you to the First Order?”

“No.” you say again.

She withdraws the needle once she’s pulled enough blood. “Alright. Thank you for sitting so well.”

“Thank you for- attending to me.” You do like her and her kind eyes, but you’re not sure how to talk to her, and she’s beginning to make you uncomfortable with her prodding. Of course, it’s no secret that when pestered, indentured stormtroopers do generally get emotional- you weren’t taken at birth, but a bit later, and reconditioned after being sold or taken or whatever had happened. You’d felt the pain of remembering several times before- it happened, sometimes, especially during battle when you caught sight of something vaguely familiar- but you were reconditioned each time. They thankfully hid those memories back inside your mind, but the ghost of the pain remained, and each time someone poked at it the embers of the fire threatened to roar to life once more. You don’t want the pain of another fire. You just want to finish your routine for the day, shower, and lay in bed once more, staring up at the underside of PN-1033’s bed while she talks to you for far too long and you struggle to respond without snapping at her to shut up and let you rest. You like it when she talks to you, but you also like to sleep. You smile back at her when she beams at you, tapping on whatever device your blood had been drawn into, despite the fact that she can’t see you.

But the embers have been stoked now- you’ll report to Captain Phasma after your assignment. If she’s anything like your last captain- or the captain before him- she won’t send you to reconditioning yet- you’re still loyal and dutiful. There is no need to waste resources for your comfort. But it would still be wise to tell her, just in case. You hope that she will send you to reconditioning, though- as painful as it is, it’s better to get all the pain and discomfort over all at once rather than suffer the slow burn of your conditioning fizzle out. At least it is to you- you remember other indentured troopers being dragged screaming, especially recently arrived troopers. You don’t generally think about that- about the past- but your slippery grip on your perfect balance of order and peace has faltered. You can only hope you’re reconditioned before it gets to the point where you, too, are dragged screaming, begging for a family you will never know again.

Sadness pierces your heart. “You’ve done it, Penny,” you say. You don’t mean to call her that- you were trying to say PN- but it’s still within regulation. Your frustration is apparent in your voice.

“Do you need reconditioning?” she asks, sounding concerned.

“Maybe. I was going to go after my duties, but- it keeps getting worse. Do you think I ought to go now?”

“When we’re done here, yes,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your intention, was it?”

“Of course not,” she says. You’ve offended her.

“Then there isn’t anything to be sorry about.” She relaxes at your acquittal just as her supervisor walks over.

“Well?” he asks.

“Seventeen thousand-” she begins.

“I can read, PN-1033,” he snaps. Your brow furrows behind your mask with secondhand indignation.  _ I really do need reconditioning _ . He stares at it for a long time, frowning- you glance at your watch. You’re late for your assignment now, and you’re not sure whether silence or inquiry is the more prudent option.

“Sir,” you say. “Am I needed further? My assignment-”

“Can wait, thank you, ND-0961,” he dismisses. Your jaw clenches.

“Yes, sir.” Thanks to your helmet, you can scowl all you want at your superiors, as long as your voice sounds respectful. You may hate to look at other people in the mask, but you love to be behind one yourself- especially when your conditioning is slipping.

“PN-1033,” he says.

“Yes, sir?”

“Inform the Commander of your findings- I’m going to perform another check.”

“Commander Ren or Hux, sir?” He gives her a look for a long time, and she grows ever more uncomfortable. “S-sir?”

“Commander Ren,” he says coolly. You’re really starting to detest him now.

“Yes, sir.” Penny disappears to inform Kylo Ren of the results, for some reason. Apparently he cares- and apparently, you call her Penny now. Unfortunately, you doubt reconditioning will change either of those conditions.

“Sir, may I page Captain Phasma?”

“What for?”

You blink. “I fear my conditioning may be slipping, and believe she may find it prudent to send me to reconditioning.”

“Hmph,” he says. “The Commander will asses you- no need to  _ waste _ Phasma’s time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kylo Ren is a tall man clad in black with broad shoulders. He stands by, looming over you both. It seems to make the med supervisor somewhat uncomfortable, and you find yourself wondering what ever happened to  _ his _ conditioning. Then, you scold yourself mentally- you  _ need _ reconditioning. Your embers are alight with a tiny flame- at the thought of this, you can remember a fireplace- a soothing lullaby, one you’ve remembered before. You hiss sharply in through your teeth- it hurts to remember, and you have no use for these images.

“Calm down,” hisses the medic. “I haven’t even inserted the needle.”

“It isn’t the needle, sir, it’s my conditioning,” you say through gritted teeth. “I am very sorry. I- it’s getting quite difficult,” your voice holds more emotion than it has in a long time. You feel tears prickle your eyes, and the rest of a small, quaint living room comes into focus through the fog of pain your memories elicit. “It’s like my brain is-  _ ripping _ .” This isn’t a fire anymore, it’s a red-hot knife- no, it’s a red lightsaber. Your mother’s red lightsaber. You mewl in pain, and then your helmet is removed- by Kylo Ren. You can feel the grimace on your face as it’s exposed. Penny is looking at you with guilt and concern. The medic jabs you with the needle and hunts for your vein- he’s much worse at it than Penny, and it takes all you have in you not to snarl at him what an infantile, incapable worm he is.

“Your reconditioning will have to wait,” snaps the medic. “You’re quite clearly predisposed-”

“I’m fully aware of that,  _ sir _ ,” you cannot stop yourself from snarling. He scowls at you as the machine begins drawing more blood.

“How dare you-”

“Enough,” Kylo Ren’s synthetic voice is calm and deep, interrupting the medic’s reprimandation. “You heard her- her conditioning is failing. There is no use reprimanding her, and quite frankly, I’m sick of your voice.”

The medic pales and returns to the machine. “Yes, sir.” It’s like a holy retribution for his treatment of Penny and you- thought you’d never dare to presume the Commander had done it for either of you.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to waste time with another test,” the Commander says, sounding agitated, though his tone seems muted by the mask.

“Sir- the reading was unreasonably high,” the medic explains hurriedly. “Not only is it highly unlikely she would have slipped under the radar with her reading- it seems impossible that she wouldn’t have shown signs of her- possible condition- should the reading be true. Especially as an indoctrinated-” he begins to chortle sitting there.

“I told you,” says the Commander impatiently. “I’m sick of your voice. Leave- I’m sufficiently capable of finishing your unnecessary repetition.” He releases the medic from his chokehold, and the man scurries off obediently.

A Force choke. It’s enough to break open the floodgates of your memory; as Kylo Ren sits in the medic’s abandoned chair, and Penny looks on in morbid curiosity and moderate concern, you can see your mother’s giant thumb on your cheek as a toy dances, floating in the air above you. She looks so much like you do now, only a couple years older. Her eyes are tired but kind- hazel, just like Penny’s. It’s the only concrete memory you have- the rest is still fog, and you don’t want to focus on it. Shuddering from the pain moving over your body in waves, you stare at the needle site.

“Sir,” you say. You need something- anything- to think about to keep your mother’s face from returning to your mind. Her image sears a hole into your brain like you’re being poked with a lightsaber. “What are you testing for?”

“Midi-chlorians,” he says, his voice almost soft. “I sensed someone in your regiment was Force sensitive- and I can feel very clearly now that it’s you.”

“Now what?”

“Hmm,” is all he offers in response.

“Please tell me I’m allowed to go to reconditioning after this,” you all but gasp.

“No.”

You groan in protest. “Sir-”

“You’re going to be un-conditioned, if you will. Your days as a stormtrooper are over- ND-0961.” But you don’t want to be un-conditioned; you don’t want your days as a stormtrooper to be over. You want to be in the laundry room, using your favorite nylon brush to carefully clean your superiors’ boots. “Tell me about your mother?”

“Do I have to?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“She… Had brown hair. Dark eyes. A red lightsaber. She was good at singing.” You don’t know anything else- you were young when she sold you.

She  _ sold _ you. It’s a truth that stings now. An image of her quite different from the other one you have appears- hair thin and dry and broken, eyes sunken in and bruises, thinner than a grown woman should be capable of being. She’s starving- you both are. You’ll die if she doesn’t give you up, but you feel like you’ll both die without each other. You sob suddenly as that heart-wrenching grief returns.  _ They’ll feed you everyday, baby, _ she cooed at you.  _ That’s more than I can say _ .

Suddenly, you feel ill. Mercifully, Kylo Ren removes the needle so you can turn and vomit into the garbage can at your feet for a long time. Penny scurries to your side and strokes your hair- you sob harder. Mama used to do that. Suddenly, you wish you could die. You wish you died back on your home planet, safely in the arms of your mother.

“17,370,” says Kylo. “It is high.” You’re almost grateful- had he been wrong, there’s no reconditioning now. You’d be released, or (more mercifully) terminated. You still have no idea what it means for you, though.

“There’s no reason for this,” whispers Penny. “You ate, we didn’t take that much blood-”

“Conditioning,” you sputter as you finally find yourself capable of sitting up again. You look at her pretty face with sad, desperate eyes. “It’s all back,” you sputter, crying.

She looks heartbroken for you as you lean into her, exhausted, pain still throbbing through you. She holds you and rubs your hair again, gently tutting and shushing you. You’re not sobbing anymore, but you lay there against her shoulder, tears raining down your face. You were five when she sold you. Your father had left when you were three, and all you remembered about him was a photograph your mother kept of him holding you as a baby. You lived in a tiny house with one room, and you slept in her arms every night. By day, she sent you outside to play- you gather now she was a prostitute, though she’d hidden it from you as well as she could. You remember how broken and fragile her body had always been- she couldn’t work, so your father’s job went undone. You’d just gotten a job in a factory when Mama sold you.

_ She’s dead now _ . You’re certain of it. Your face twists as you struggle not to weep.

“Thank you, PN-1033,” Kylo Ren says softly. “You’re dismissed for today- take a recreational.”

“Y-yes, sir,” she stutters unsurely.

“See to it that  _ you _ do not need to be sent for reconditioning.”

“Yes, sir.” She reluctantly leaves your side, and you sit up, looking over at Kylo Ren for a moment before he stands, too.

“Come.”

After mercifully letting you brush your teeth, he leads you to his private chambers- you’re unfamiliar with them, as they aren’t on your assignment. The light is dim and while it’s a relatively small space- perhaps no bigger than your home had been- it’s quite nice and furnished well. He motions for you to sit in a plush dining chair at a small table, and you do- he sits across from you, then removes his helmet. You hadn’t stopped to consider what he might look like under his mask- to you,  _ Kylo Ren _ was less a man and more a commanding machine, marching around the ship and being of use, as every single person on it. It always felt strange in the mess hall, seeing your colleagues’ faces- like seeing exposed wiring.

Looking at the handsome face behind Kylo’s helmet was not like exposed wire. You had vaguely noticed the attractiveness of other people all your life- Penny was a very delicate, pretty girl, for instance- but something about Kylo’s face is- different. He has an oval shaped face with large, dark eyes, a hooked nose, plump lips, and his porcelain skin is dotted with birth and beauty marks. There’s a long scar across one cheek. He’s only a bit older than you, certainly younger than thirty. His long dark hair is wavy and the downy feel of it was visibly apparent. He isn’t so aesthetically perfect as Penny’s angelic face, but he is undeniably handsome. Looking at him sit at his dining table was like staring at a monster as it relaxed.

“I wish I could offer more comfort,” he tells you gently. His voice is simultaneously so different and similar to the synthetic hiss of the mask. He sounds like- a man now. Your brain is struggling to make sense of him. He tugs off his gloves to reveal two large, strong hands. “But I’ve never been very good at that.”

“Thank you,” you say. You’re pretty sure it’s an appropriate response, but social graces had never been your strong suit.

“Give me your hand,” he says, and you do, though you’re reluctant. Your palm is against his index finger, and he rubs his thumb into your knuckles. It’s strangely comforting. “My father used to rub my hand like this,” he tells you gently. For some reason, it feels like a big revelation, like he’s letting you in further than he’s let anyone in before. Really, it’s a simple statement, though. He gets an ironic smile, staring down at your hand still. “My mother’s, too.”

You try to think about your father- all you can gather is watching him work, looking angry and bored. He was a big man with a scratchy beard and messy, wiry hair. You look at Kylo again, trying to think of a response, but you can’t.

“My mother liked to play with my hair,” he says.

“Mine, too,” you finally manage to rasp out. Your throat is sore from crying and getting ill.

“It bothered me when I was older, but it was always a big comfort.”

You can almost feel your mother’s tiny hand on your head again. You want to die. Instead of responding, you stare at Kylo’s chin. Despite the despondent glare you can feel on your face, you are interested in hearing him speak. You haven’t thought about parental love before- at least, not in a long time.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“I don’t know,” you croak after a long time. “I don’t think I ever heard anyone say it.”

“What did your father call her?”

You can’t remember your father talking to her. “Not much of anything.” He nods briefly before looking down at your hand again. He places his other hand on top of it- it’s so much larger than yours. You can’t recall having felt so small compared to anyone before- your mother was small, too, and you can’t remember being around your father. “What about your parents?”

His jaw twitches exactly two times. “Leia Organa and Han Solo.”

You swear you’ve heard those names before, but you push them aside. “I see.”

“I think you’ve remembered all that you’re going to,” he says softly, his voice barely audible.

“Probably.” You feel as if that’s true, at least. What a small history to have such a great effect on you.

He stands and leads you to the couch, sitting both of you down. “I’m not sure how to help you more.”

You don’t speak. It occurs to you how- sterile the exchange between you is. Neither of you are particularly uncomfortable in each other’s presence, but that is really all there is to be said. He seems mildly intrigued by you, and you’re moderately intrigued by him. You feel distant and impersonal to yourself. You don’t feel like you have a self. He feels like- and you have no idea how you come to this conclusion- like he’s suppressing himself, denying it. His jaw twitches again, brow furrowing for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. Before you know what you’re doing you’ve set your temple against his chest and leaned into him. He doesn’t startle, instead placing his arm around you and gently holding you there. It’s intimate and impersonal all at once. The rise and fall of his chest is comforting, and the sound of his breath is all you care to focus on. One of your arms is tucked under you, your hand resting on his thigh. The other leaves the couch in front of your belly to tug his free hand closer, inspecting it, tracing the lines of it. You both stay there immobile for a long time, basking in the company of each other’s silent, comforting presence. Your physical pain fades slowly, and as your eyes flutter shut, your brain begins to relax as well. His hand moves to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your hair. You shudder and let yourself drift away into unconsciousness.


	2. Updatee

I swear I am working on it! I've been in and out of the hospital and it's taken me some time. I'm almost done with this and a couple other SW fics I'm writing! I'm so sorry :'(


	3. Suppression

You wake up alone on the sofa, the room around you too dark to see much of anything. You scowl at the seat as the drowsiness slowly leaves you. It strikes you, much to your surprise, how uncomfortable the couch is. It feels- old, cheap.  
You sit up and open your mouth to call out to him, but you have no idea what to call him. Just as the word Commander? is about to leave your lips, a window slides open with a loud rustling sound, and light pours into a tiny little home with one bedroom.  
“Oh, baby,” cooes a familiar voice, and you see Mama sitting by the open window. She looks young and vibrant, her skin healthy, her hair shimmering. “You’re awake.”  
“Mama,” you breathe, then yawn. “What are you doing by the window?”  
She looks out at the sky, peppered with clouds and several moons. “Thinking,”  
“About what?”  
She smiles wistfully, though her eyes are sad. She turns to look at you. “You’re so beautiful,” she says. Her voice breaks.  
“Only because I look like you,” you say after a moment.  
She smiles wider, then stands and walks over to you. She crouches in front of you, and you put your forehead on hers, closing your eyes as her warmness rushes over you like a tidal wave. You feel safe and loved and cared for, for the first time in over a decade. She pushes a hand into your hair and massages your scalp- not playing with your hair like she usually does, but rubs the skin like she does when your head hurts. Like she did for Daddy; you got migraines just like he did, but Mama loved you both, and she knew how to make you feel better. “You’re only remembering me how I used to be, baby,” she says, and you open your eyes to see yellowish eyes staring into yours. “Do you want to see how I look now?”  
Your heart leaps. She’s still alive? Relief floods through you as tears enter your eyes. “Yes, Mama,” you stutter out just before you begin to sob.  
In a moment, her skin has rotted off and her hair falls away. A rancid smell of putrid decay floods the house, which is at once looted and half-collapsed. Her bony fingers dig painfully into your head as you let out a terrified squeal. Her barren teeth clack inhumanly as she speaks in a guttural, grounded out voice: “I rotted here, alone, while you let them mold you.”  
She’s pushing you back, then, her fingers drawing blood. You try to struggle but you can’t bring yourself to hurt her, and she won’t give up that easily. “Mama!”  
“You’re not my daughter!” She screams in a hellish tone, her voice split into three octaves. “You let them kill her, and you pretend to be her! You didn’t want to remember me! And now I’m rotting in hell all alone while you languish on a dictator’s ship!” She’s shaking you now, scratching you with her sharp fingers. You’re weeping, trying to restrain her, but you’re incapable. “I died for you! I died so you could eat! And you didn’t even have the decency to miss me!”  
“I do! I do miss you, Mama!” You scream. Your mind isn’t making sense of the struggle anymore, just the pain and the fear and the guilt and the smell. You can’t see anymore; it’s like you’re falling, slipping. “I love you, Mama-!”  
“Andi,” your name is hissed with urgency as you blink in terror and confusion. Your head is killing you, and the room is weirdly bright. Your mother shakes you again-  
But the face looking down at you isn’t Mama, and the shake isn’t so violent. It’s Kylo Ren, with tired eyes, looking somewhere between agitated and curious. As you try to steady your breathing, you stare into the dark abysses of his eyes. His grip on your biceps slackens and becomes almost comforting, but the light is killing you- in a moment, the bulb shatters and darkness engulfs the room. Kylo whips his head to look at it, then frowns down at you, as if you’d done it.  
And you had. You remember now that you do remember the Force, and that you’d used it. Mama had taught you it, but you were much more adept at it than she was. She’d made you promise not to tell anyone in the First Order about it, and by the time you were loyal enough to have ignored her warning, you’d forgotten everything.  
“That- that’s why you want me,” you whisper, trying not to provoke your headache. The medicine they have you on usually stops the migraines, but they’re too horrible to risk.  
“Yes. It is.”  
How did he- he’s reading my- you’re reading my mind.  
He looks almost amused, like a cat watching a mouse discover it. “Yes. I am.”  
“Can I do that?”  
He laughs gently. “Maybe. With training.”  
“Maybe?”  
His head tilts to the side as he studies you, still limp in his grip. “Not everyone with the Force shares the same specialties.”  
“Can you see my past?” You ask hopefully.  
A wry smile overtakes his face. “I can only see what you see. Most of it is, as you put it, fog.”  
“That’s why you want me to remember so badly,” you say.  
“Yes.”  
“But- why do you want to know?”  
“I wasn’t particularly interested until you remembered the red lightsaber.”  
An image of it flashes through your memory- it had been Daddy’s, not Mama’s. And his Daddy’s before him. But the pain of the memory makes you groan and shudder, giving up. For now.  
“You shouldn’t strain yourself. It’ll only make it harder to remember.” He’s studying you quietly as if you’re a puzzling, well written mystery- one with little plot, just enough to keep you from boredom before bed. But strangely puzzling… “You think of the strangest metaphors,” he says softly.  
“That was a simile,” you say thoughtlessly, then wonder how you know that. “Why did I dream that?”  
“Because you’re guilty, and you miss her.” He says it like he’s disappointed that you have to ask. You frown at him.  
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say weakly.  
“No. You didn’t.”  
His words are strangely reassuring. You examine his face for a long moment before looking down and leaning back, sitting on your own. “Thank you for waking me.”  
“We have work to do,” he says simply, turning away from you.  
“What is it?”  
“Training. You need to harness the Force, hone your skill.”  
“Why?”  
He tenses. “You ask too many questions.”  
“Unfortunately for us both, my conditioning has failed. I have, against my own will, my own thoughts.”  
“Mmm,” he sounds tired, annoyed, in disagreement, but uninterested in sharing. He looks over at you. “You see that? That impossible intuition?”  
“That’s the Force,” you say.  
“Yes. You learned that because it benefitted you. There must be other things you can do.”  
You try to think. You’ve always been the best shot. You’ve never sustained an injury in battle. That being said, you’d never fought anyone particularly impressive.  
The battles felt like they were eons ago, and it felt like you’d left Mama years ago. Your brow furrows.  
“Your dream was right about one thing,” he said softly. “Your conditioning- it split your brain, your memories. It suppressed who you used to be. Remembering is suppressing who they made you to be.”  
“Aren’t you a part of ‘they’?” You say in lieu of processing his words.  
“No, not really,” he says.  
“How do I- unite them?”  
He looks at you again, not following.  
“The me I was, and the me ‘they’ made me?”  
He looks away quickly, but not before you see a strange look in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “And I don’t care. I don’t care who you are, or what you feel, or what you wish your life could be. You will train, and you will follow my orders. Do you understand?”  
“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly. That ought to bother you more, but you’re used to it. You suppose it’s good you’re still used to it, for now, as you can’t really change it.  
“Good. You do understand.” He stands, looking at a door. “I’m going to shower. Go look for clothes that might fit you.”  
“Okay,” you say, then realize you ought to have said sir, yes, sir. He doesn’t seem to care much, though, as he walks surely to the door.  
Maybe he isn’t quite ‘them’. Maybe he’s like you- in between. He’s denying that kid he used to be, though- the kid who let Han Solo stroke his hand, Leia Organa play with his hair. The Force is telling you that.  
You wonder what will happen, between the two of you. You wonder what you’ll both do to the universe.  
Then, you go to the other door and discover a small, dark bedroom, wandering to the dresser. It’s hard to find something that fits, but you settle on a stretchy material that’s baggy on you and must barely fit him, if at all. Then you go to the couch and wait, listening to the water on the other side of the door.  
“Andi,” you whisper to yourself. Maybe you like that name.


End file.
